


Darling, Sweetheart

by beccastanz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Ben calls Rey: darling/sweetheart/little wife/perfect girl/my love, Ben comes inside of her, Blow Jobs, Chivalry, Christmas Smut, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Contact, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied hea, Kissing, Light Angst, Missionary Position, Multiple Orgasms, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, No Condom, No Pregnancy, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Pining, Praise Kink, Rey calls Ben: darling/husband, Roleplay, Soft Ben Solo, Strangers to Lovers, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, There Was Only One Room, Trains, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wine, excessive chivalry, multiple orgasms for everyone!, no beta we die like men, no kink unless love is a kink, pretend love, rey has an iud, roleplay being in love, three finger fingering, whoops I guess that’s a kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28419597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz
Summary: “We could pretend.”He trails the finger up to her wrist, ever so slightly nudging the hem of her sweater. Her breathing changes, sharp and sudden in the stillness of the room. It is only her small gasp and the crackling of the fire and an invitation.“Pretend?” She doesn’t recognize her own voice, soft and supple and deeply longing.“To be in love. Just for the night. Just to see.”
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 279
Kudos: 1117





	Darling, Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to my Christmas fic! I decided to take “strangers to lovers” one step further, all the way to “strangers roleplay being in love.” A bit different from my usual, but it was fun to write. I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> Special thanks to [Chibinator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaii_chibinator/works) for the moodboard!

When the train grinds to a halt far too soon, Rey isn’t the only one to peer out the window with concern. They appear to be right in the middle of a small town, a thin sheet of snow covering the ground, Christmas lights decorating the street lamps and trees. This is not a scheduled stop.

“Attention,” says a voice over the speakers. “There is a mechanical issue with the train. We will be unable to resume our trip until the morning.”

Groans echo through the cabin. 

“Furthermore, we do not advise remaining on the train overnight, as the heating system will not be operational. Please exit using the middle car for safety. There is a hotel in town several blocks from the exit.”

She’s stuck in the backmost car (economy, her ticket said), her overnight bag and a stirring feeling of annoyance in her gut. 

And she’s cold, already _so cold._

Slowly, the train cars empty and she gets closer and closer to the exit, first class slowly encroaching on economy. She is at the very end, attempting patience as families and couples meander through the aisles.

She pulls out her phone to text Finn and Poe and inform them of the delay, drops a pin and assures them that she will be fine for the night. And then, finally, she can see the exit. Between her phone and her haste, she accidentally shoulder checks a door.

“Pardon me, miss.”

Oh. Not a door after all.

“Sorry,” she manages, turning to face the wall of muscle she’s found herself touching. She cranes her neck to look at him, up and up and up. She’s not a small woman, but next to him—

“No apologies necessary. It’s a bit cramped back here, no?”

He smiles, tight like he’s out of practice, but warm. So warm.

She’s struck with the need to know him.

She nods, a bit dumbstruck, cataloguing his every feature: a constellation of beauty marks, strong nose, silky locks just a bit too long to be fashionable but begging to be touched, caressed, _yanked—_

She presses her thighs together in what she hopes is a subtle way as they close in on the exit. He’s gorgeous, startlingly so. 

It’s inevitable, really, falling into step next to each other, beelining behind the other train car guests to the small inn. The chill is even worse out here, biting through her scarf and mittens despite their thickness. She shivers as they walk, snow crunching beneath her boots.

“Cold?”

She could listen to him read the phone book and probably still get wet.

Yet it feels like more than simple attraction when she responds, “A bit,” and he places his hard shell suitcase in the snow, reaching for his coat to remove it before holding it up in an offer to drape it across her shoulders.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Do you not want—”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“You’re not imposing,” he says with an air of finality. “I run hot.”

She wonders if her blush is visible in the low light of the street lamps.

“Okay,” she whispers as he wraps her in warmth and softness and the scent of spicy, woodsy _man._ “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome...?”

They resume walking before she realizes what he’s asking.

“Oh, Rey. With an ‘e’.”

He smiles again, less of a grimace than last time. More open. Gentler.

“Ben. Also with an ‘e’.

Everything about him screams first class besides his position in the train. But there’s something beneath that begs to be interrogated.

He’s a stranger, and yet.

_And yet._

They’re the last ones to enter the inn, approaching the counter with a shiver as the slightly warmer air envelops them.

She didn’t exactly plan for this in her budget, and sends a silent prayer that this is the type of town with inexpensive lodging.

“Ladies first,” Ben says with a gesture of his arm. She takes the opportunity to place his coat over it, already mourning the loss of warmth and comfort.

“Thank you.” She turns to the desk. “How much for a room?”

The woman behind the desk looks at her, then strangely, her gaze shifts to Ben.

“Are you two not together?”

A strange pang of confusion and jealousy floods her, the line of questioning a slight shock.

“No, why?” She forces herself to keep her tone pleasant, even if an instinct to say _yes, of course we are, come along darling, let’s go to our room_ overtakes her.

“Oh,” says the woman, slight discomfort coloring her features. “Well, we only have one room left.”

_Oh._

She turns to Ben, then back at the woman, mouth surely gaping like a fish before she can collect herself.

He clears his throat.

“It’s our honey—I mean, it’s our largest suite.”

_Probably the most expensive one._

And then her new favorite voice pipes up from behind her.

“Is there a couch?”

The woman nods.

“Rey?”

She turns to him, immediately lost in his eyes.

“If you’re comfortable with it, I could cover the room? And sleep on the couch?”

It’s entirely too generous, but he says it like she’d be doing him a favor by accepting.

She should probably be worried; he could be a creep, or worse, but a lifetime of honing an instinct for self-preservation leaves her confident that he’s not a threat. 

But still, too generous.

“Ben, I can’t let you pay _and_ sleep on the couch, at least let me—”

“Consider it a Christmas gift. Please.” He’s so earnest as he begs to treat her well, and something stirs in her that’s been dormant her whole life. 

Is it possible for a man like this to exist? A man who treats a stranger like a friend? Who offers warmth and a smile, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes?

Perhaps he’s just trying to get in her pants. 

Good thing she doesn’t have a problem with that. 

She turns back to the reception desk.

“Do you have wine?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turns back to Ben.

“Let me buy us a bottle, at least.”

Another smile, each more relaxed than the last. 

“Okay.”

So he gets their keys and swipes his black card (and she feels a _little_ less bad about letting him pay) and Rey grabs a bottle of red from the small store behind the desk. When she returns, he’s holding his bag. 

And hers. 

She’s perfectly capable of carrying her own bag, but the way he looks at her…

She thinks she’ll let him.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and they fall into lockstep toward the elevator.

“My pleasure,” he says as she presses the call button. 

_Pleasure_

She grips the bottle tighter. 

The ride is smooth and silent. Simmering.

The hallway is short. The walk feels long.

He opens the door for her, and she curses the flutter in her stomach.

But it’s nice to be cared for, even if it’s fleeting, even for a night, one night where perhaps she doesn’t have to claim to be entirely self-sufficient.

She wonders how far his caring attentions extend.

He carries their bags to the bedroom, and they separate to explore the suite. She faintly hears the sound of running water from the bathroom, Ben making use of the facilities. There’s a small sitting room, the promised couch across from an unlit fireplace. 

As if on cue, she shivers at the cold. She feels Ben re-enter behind her, having sufficiently explored the bedroom and bathroom before returning to find her wrapping her arms around her chest.

“Still cold?”

He’s close behind her, too far away to be indecent but close enough that if she shuts her eyes, she thinks she can feel the barest bit of warmth emanating from his body.

She nods.

“I could light a fire, if you’d like?”

She can’t help but turn around at the offer, eyebrow lifted in surprise. Nothing about him implies “rustic,” with a peacoat she’s sure cost a month of her rent and a suit so effortlessly fitted to his body that she knows it was impeccably tailored, or perhaps even custom made. His suitcase is monogrammed and those gorgeous locks of hair that she wants desperately to feel are styled so effortlessly, she knows it took what is likely an obscene amount of effort.

“You know how to do that?”

He chuckles, and she wants to live in the sound.

“I might not look it, but yes, I can build a fire. You could use the restroom if you’d like? Freshen up while I get it going?”

He strides across the room without waiting for an answer, kneeling in front of the small pile of firewood.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Rey,” he tosses over his shoulder, gifting her with his toothiest grin so far. It makes him look years younger, and she wonders what his life has been to make stoicism the norm.

She pulls her toiletry bag from her duffel as discreetly as possible before darting to the bathroom, past the king sized bed that she will presumably occupy alone tonight.

_We’ll see._

There’s a claw foot tub at the edge of the room, gorgeous and far more tempting than the practical shower next to it. For now, she ignores both, intent on making this trip as short as possible to return to the gorgeous enigma building her a fire just because she shivered.

After using the frankly obscene porcelain toilet (and seriously, a pulley handle? Was it an aesthetic choice or is this hotel truly that old?), she dampens a washcloth to run it over her face and neck, wiping away the weariness of a day of travel. After a turn with her toothbrush and a quick comb of her hair, she takes a steadying breath and returns to the sitting room.

He’s standing up from the fire as she enters; it’s quietly crackling, filling the room with warmth. But the sight of him alone would have been enough to warm her.

His coat and suit jacket have been discarded, draped over the back of the couch along with his tie. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that should be illegal for how thick and corded with muscle they are.

“I was going to open the bottle,” he starts, scratching at the back of his neck and drawing her attention to just how big he is all over again, “but I thought you might want to be here for that.”

Attentive. Smart. Sexy as all hell.

She picked the right train.

“Thank you. Can you see if there are glasses somewhere?”

“Sure.” He brushes past her on his walk toward the bedroom and the scent of him hits her again, heavy and comforting and strong. She wants to bury herself in him, burrow into his darkest corners and curl into a ball and let him hold her like she’s never allowed herself to be held, like no one has ever tried to do.

The wine is a screw top, and she opens it just as he returns with two small cylindrical glasses.

“This seems to be all they have.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

His smile is a bit darker this time. “Deal.”

He holds the glasses out in front of him. She gives them each a substantial pour, screwing the lid back on and placing the bottle on the side table before reaching for a glass.

Their fingers touch, fleeting. Electric. 

She settles on one side of the couch, hoping the darkness of the room will hide her blush, hoping that her move to sit on his presumed bed for the night is not out of line. There is only the light from the fire and a single weak lamp propped in the corner, swathing them in a sensual blend of orange and red. 

She takes a sip to steady herself.

“Thank you, again. For the room.”

Her voice seems to startle him out of a reverie, and he moves to occupy the other side of the couch.

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m happy to do it.”

_Happy_

She wonders if he’s really happy.

She wonders if she ever will be.

They take a sip in unison. She doesn’t know if the wine is good or bad, only that it’s a little sweet and a little bitter and will probably stain her teeth, but at least it gives her something to do with her hands other than fist them in his collar and beg him for something he can’t give.

The room is dark and warm and seems to invite debauchery, but they stay frozen at either end of the couch, waiting for something that may never come.

He’s a stranger here, seemingly willing to bear her load. He took her bag, but what about the rest?

Another sip. The fire coaxes, encouraging.

“Tell me a secret,” she whispers in the darkness. “It feels like a night for secrets.” 

She sees the curve of his smile in the firelight. He’s devastating. 

“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”

The cold seeped into her bones, but he made her heat and his voice is warming, soothing, lights its own fire in her belly, high on her cheeks, deep between her legs.

What’s a night between strangers?

“You first,” she demands softly, afraid of her own game.

His eyes twinkle as his gaze passes over her form. Unsubtle. Erotic. 

She feels naked, even in her sweater and jeans. 

“This is the first time I’ve gone home for Christmas in ten years. The first time I’ll see my parents.”

She sucks in a breath through her teeth. Takes another sip of wine. Rolls it on her tongue. It’s bitter, now.

She wonders. 

“I don’t have parents.”

He makes a small noise of his own: a short exhale, tight lipped and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

They take a sip in unison. 

“Another?” he suggests. 

More secrets. She collects every tidbit she can from this man, intoxicating, intriguing. 

She nods. 

He undoes his top button. Comfortable.

She wants to nip at the exposed skin, feel where his heart beats beneath the tight fabric.

“I quit my job two days ago.”

Interesting.

“Why?”

He sighs, a larger gulp from his glass.

“Because I realized I hadn’t been home in ten years, and a job that made me want to punch a wall every single day of my life wasn’t a good enough reason.”

He says it like he’s been waiting to say it for so long, which she supposes must be true.

A layer of tension she hadn’t noticed escapes his form, leaving him a bit more pliant on the sofa. Softer. Freer.

So she raises her glass.

“To quitting.”

And a real smile spreads across his face.

“To quitting,” he agrees, clinking their glasses before another wash of silence passes through the room.

“And you?” He whispers after a prolonged moment, after the weight of the world manages to creep back in between them, menacing and heavy.

“Me?”

She’s stalling.

“What’s your secret?”

She ponders it in her mind, the plethora of tidbits she could give to this man. But only one matters.

“I’ve never been in love,” she whispers. It’s a truth she avoids like the plague for how much she wishes it weren’t. 

Admitting it makes her feel weak. Admitting it makes her feel _free._ He’s a stranger, the perfect one to bear her shame. She is secure in her life, successful and content enough and she’s gotten through the worst through sheer force of will. She doesn’t need love. 

But fuck if she doesn’t crave it. 

And then. 

“Me either.”

_Oh._

“Really?” She can’t hide the shock in her voice. He hears it. He chuckles. 

It makes her wet. 

“Really.”

She drains her wine glass, sets it on the side table and wrings her hands in her lap before loathing the motion, placing them on either side of her thighs on the soft fabric of the couch.

“Do you want to be?”

“Yes.” 

He answers so quickly she hardly hears it, his response nearly covered by her inquiry. 

“Why haven’t you been?” She shouldn’t ask questions she doesn’t want to answer herself, but she has to know.

“I never…” he trails off, contemplative, like he thought he had the answer but it slipped through his fingers. “I suppose I didn’t allow myself to consider it an option.”

_Didn’t_

Not _don’t._

Another piece to tuck away.

He looks to her, then. Inviting, but not pressing. 

“I’m impossible to love.”

She hiccups as she says it, not realizing a tear has made its way past her eye until the drop falls, a damp spot spiraling out on her jeans. 

“I’m positive that’s not true, Rey.”

“Well,” she chuckles, trying to reel in the confession she hasn’t meant to voice but couldn’t hold back, “I’m waiting for evidence to the contrary.”

He reaches for her hand, pauses just before they would touch. Waiting. 

She looks at him again, then, sees a depth of feeling in his eyes entirely unfamiliar. She turns her palm up in invitation. 

“I’d like to propose something, Rey.” He strokes a finger over her newly bared palm. Her shudder is not from the cold, this time. 

“We could pretend.”

He trails the finger up to her wrist, ever so slightly nudging the hem of her sweater. Her breathing changes, sharp and sudden in the stillness of the room. It is only her small gasp and the crackling of the fire and an invitation. 

“Pretend?” She doesn’t recognize her own voice, soft and supple and deeply longing. 

“To be in love. Just for the night. Just to see.”

“Ben.” His name is a sigh from her lips. Acquiescence. Serenity. 

She doesn’t know how she found herself here. She only knows her intent to soak in every moment. 

Just a taste. 

Her eyes flit to his lips. 

“May I kiss you, darling?”

She assumes her role like breathing. It’s deliciously easy, tears and secrets and pain forgotten. There is only this, this gorgeous, sweet, looming man offering her the world for an evening. 

“Of course.” The tremor in her voice is faint, but present. Anticipatory. 

He smiles like she’s just offered him the world before sliding across the couch, tenderly cupping her cheek.

He kisses her like it’s the thousandth time and the first all at once, and her toes curl in her boots. His lips are so soft, pressing her open, coaxing, a tease of tongue against the seam of her before he pulls back just to drag his lips against hers, to feel them slide, plush and slippery and soothing before sucking her bottom one between his teeth. It’s only the slightest nibble but she absolutely melts against him, opens wider, lets him in deeper, distractedly wonders what such attention would feel like between her legs. 

She’s putty in his hands, the one that was once on her wrist now gently encircling her waist, all the way around her back between her and the couch, pulling her up, out, into his chest as the other hand continues to hold her cheek.

This must be what love feels like. It’s impossible that it could be anything else. 

When he pulls away, she chases him, chases _that,_ _more of that, please, more_ her body says for her, leaning into his chest, craning her neck to look at him again, to lose herself in the fantasy. 

“You’re so cold, sweetheart.”

She nods, trying to curl into him deeper.

Instead, he leans back down, presses a small kiss just below her ear that turns her body to jelly. It’s only by the strength of his arm around her that she doesn’t collapse into the cushions. 

“I believe a man in love would draw his wife a warm bath to combat the chill, don’t you think?” His whisper caresses her neck and she’s nodding before she can think. It’s startling how easy this is, how much more deeply erotic it is than any tryst she can remember.

He kisses her again, this time with enough heat that her body falls slack in his arms and she fists her hands in his shirt, one at his waist as the other pulls his collar. She’s fucked and been fucked, kissed enough people that she’s lost count, but it’s never, _ever_ felt like this. She feels utterly consumed.

He eases her gently back into the pillows, a final kiss against her lips, lingering.

“I won’t be a moment, love,” he whispers soothingly into her mouth where it is open and wanting.

He leaves her panting, undone, wetness seeping through cotton.

Certainly warmer than she was.

She hears the sound of the tub being filled and she gets an idea, one that requires her to move quickly before she loses her nerve. 

She stands, legs still a bit wobbly from his attentions, and strips—boots and jeans and socks and sweater and underwear until she is entirely naked in front of the fire. 

If they were in love, he would have seen her body a million times, in every single possible way, and still love her. Still _want_ her.

So she commits, striding to the open bathroom door with a confidence she doesn’t feel, but projects. 

He’s bent over the edge of the tub in a crouch, hand testing the water temperature as the level rises, nearly full. His back is to her, so broad she thinks she could hardly wrap her arms around him. But she wants to try. 

She crosses the room before he can turn around, wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Is my bath ready?”

The hand in the water comes out to rest on her bare arm while the other reaches for the faucet to stop the flow.

“Nearly there, my—”

He stops himself. The hand on her arm turns exploratory, realizes this skin is not something it has felt yet. 

She sees the movement of his throat when he gulps, realizing her naked form is only just behind him, tantalizingly close, if he were just to simply turn around. 

He starts with his head, swivels to capture her lips in a searing kiss while he simultaneously shuts off the water. It’s hungrier than the others were. Promising. 

His torso is next. It should be awkward, the way they’re both crouched and huddled on the bathroom floor, but somehow their bodies seem to know exactly what to do. She straightens her legs, upper half still bent to reach him. He surges. Lips against hers, then her neck as she heightens, panting breaths, his knees on the tiles, hovering hands.

“Can I—”

“You don’t have to ask,” she whispers, guiding his hands to wrap around her naked torso. He spans her back with the width of his hands and she feels safe. _Loved._

“You’re so fucking beautiful, my perfect little wife,” he murmurs into her neck before descending further down, his legs bending to facilitate gentle kisses across her collarbone, to the dip between her breasts. The title does something to her, unlocks a deep-held longing that she’s never confronted. _Little wife._ She can be held, prized, made to feel small and delicate without being told that _small_ means _weak._

It takes every bit of strength not to thrust her hips into his chest at the thought.

He pulls away for the briefest moment to seek her stare, stray hairs escaping his perfectly composed style, pupils blown wide with lust. His eyes dart, hungry, seeing and memorizing and tantalizing as he gets closer and closer to one of her breasts, hands coming to encircle her waist, thumbs tracing patterns on her hips.

She finally lets herself feel the softness she craves, twines a hand in his hair and guides him to her breast where her nipple is hard and peaked from the lingering cold and flood of arousal.

He looks directly into her eyes as he wraps his lips around it and she’s not sure she’s ever been more aroused in her life. Then his other hand comes to pinch the opposite nipple between his fingers and she sees stars.

Alternating sucks and licks and rolls and pinches between them make her weak at the knees, overwhelming and somehow both tender and decidedly _not._ Balanced.

She idly wonders if her thighs are wet.

“Your bath is getting cold, my love.” He says it likes it’s a secret shared only between him and her breasts, reddened and spit-slick and debauched.

Her breaths are ragged, her body shuddering. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” She forces herself to say it even if all she wants to do is guide his hand to where she is hot and wet without the aid of the bath, because the sooner they start, the sooner it ends. 

She doesn’t want this to end.

He stands slowly, and she gets a glimpse of the front of his slacks, decidedly tighter in the front than they once were. _Impressively_ tighter.

And then he holds out his hand.

She takes it, allowing him to steady her as she climbs into the blissfully warm water. 

She feels his eyes raking over her form as she moves, cataloguing everything he had yet to see.

When she sinks in to her shoulders, it’s blissful, but she already misses his hands on her body, his lips on hers. This game is decadence, serenity, fire.

He’s standing above her, seemingly at a loss for what to do now that she is submerged.

“Thank you, darling.” The endearment is unfamiliar on her tongue but she says it all the same. His smile is worth it.

“You’re welcome.” His hand twitches. Reaches. “Can I wash you?”

_Where has this man been all her life?_

She nods, hardly believing that she is going to allow this, but the idea is so heavenly that she can’t bear the thought of refusing him.

He grabs a washcloth and a bottle of fancy soap, floral and pleasant. He kneels to dampen the fabric and squeezes some of the liquid onto the cloth. He starts at her back, gentle yet firm strokes across the naked skin before he moves to her chest, then her arms, each delicately held as he scrubs away her weariness, her worries, her inhibitions.

There is only them. There is only this. There is only tonight.

She giggles when he rubs under her arms, bites her lip when he passes over her sensitive breasts under the water, tightens as he smooths over the skin of her stomach.

“Your shirt, darling,” she whispers.

His sleeves are damp even though he rolled them up and their breathing syncs. Heavy.

“You should take it off.”

He drapes the washcloth over the edge of the tub, hands reaching for his buttons to undo them with startling efficiency. His undershirt clings like a second skin, and she wraps her hand in it to mark him with her wetness.

“This too.”

And then he’s left in nothing but his slacks, bare feet on the tile. Waiting.

She needs a stretch, a taste of him, and something compels her to make this man fall apart.

“Come here.”

She guides him to the bottom edge of the tub, opposite the faucet, pulling his hand in hers until he gets the hint to stand in front of her.

His slacks are still tented.

Her mouth waters, matching her cunt beneath the water.

She reaches one hand toward the rapidly growing bulge. Grips him. Gives a small stroke. His breathing fills the bathroom with sounds she craves more of.

“Rey, you don’t have to—”

“I want to suck my darling husband’s cock,” she says with false bravado. “Are you going to deny me?”

The clawfoot tub gives her just enough height to sit back on her haunches under the water with the bottoms of her feet resting comfortably against her ass, and be perfectly level with his cock. She strokes him again. His eyes lock on her breasts, nipples just barely peeking out above the water.

“I could never deny you, my love,” he chokes out raggedly, at odds with the sweetness of the words.

She moves her hand to his waistband.

“Off.”

He complies, slacks and boxer briefs down and off all at once, kicked to the side, leaving them both entirely bare save for the water that surrounds her.

His cock is the most spectacular one she’s ever seen and she tries to hide her shock; he’s the ideal balance of long and thick, enough so that she knows her jaw will feel the stretch, that her cunt will hopefully be full.

Perhaps he will leave her with a reminder, a delicious ache.

“So lucky that I’ve learned to take all of you, isn’t it darling?” She grips the base of him with one hand, the edge of the tub with the other, and gives him one long, slow lick from root to tip, sucking the head into her mouth briefly before looking up to see his face.

She’s never been looked at so reverently while on her knees.

“Lucky,” he echoes, ragged.

She briefly removes her hand from his cock to guide one of his to grip her hair. She wants to remember this, wants him to remember _her_ like this, warm and sweet in the bath he drew for her, choking on his cock.

She opens again, this time taking several inches into her mouth, pressing her tongue to the underside of him and letting spit drool from her lips onto his shaft, slicking him with it using her free hand.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He already sounds unhinged and she suppresses the urge to smile around his length. “I’ll never get tired of your mouth for as long as I live.”

His script is divine, sends another rush of heat between her legs to be washed away in the warm embrace of the bath.

She takes more now, getting closer to the back of her throat, closer to the neatly trimmed patch of hair at the base of him, deep enough that she can use her hand to cradle his balls, gently rolling, adding sensation.

A selfish part of her wants to ruin him for anyone else.

The grip in her hair tightens.

“My perfect little wife. So good, _fuck—”_

She takes the last inch. Holds him there.

Swallows.

He whines, a gorgeous little noise that she pockets next to all the other factoids she’s managed to collect. He quit his job, he’s never been in love, he whimpers when his cock touches the back of a throat.

She wonders if her throat is special.

She moves her hand from his balls to his ass, encouraging, nudging.

She peeks up at him through her lashes as best she can with a mouthful of cock to see his face.

_Is that what love looks like?_

“I’m not going to last,” he warns, even as he starts to move, tiny little bucks of his hips into her eager throat.

She pulls off, a string of wetness still connecting them as she whispers, voice rough. “Good thing we have all night.”

She swallows him down again, feels both of his hands now twined in her hair, gentle nudges turning to lengthy thrusts that hit her as deep as he can go on every stroke. 

_This is power,_ she thinks. _This is love._

Even on her knees, even with a mouthful of cock, she can feel his awe, his reverence in every movement, in the way he starts to lose control, panting, shaking, whispering sweet nothings and depraved filth as he edges closer and closer to release.

And then, “I’m close, sweetheart.” She grips his ass even harder, pulling, encouraging as she holds herself steady with the other hand on the tub.

“Fucking _hell, perfect—little—wife,”_ and he spills over her tongue, down her throat, and she swallows it all with an eagerness she doesn’t recognize in herself.

There’s just something about this man.

And then he exits the warm wetness of her mouth and sinks to his knees on the tile, grips one hand over hers on the bathtub edge, the other coming to cradle her face.

He looks at her like he can’t be sure she’s real.

“Rey.”

A brush of his thumb over her lips. She catches it between her teeth, gives it a gentle suck before he can take it away.

“Isn’t that what people in love do?” She says it innocently, like moments ago she hadn’t been drooling on his cock, urging him to fuck her throat.

“If not, they should.”

His eyes scream bliss and he pulls her in for another searing kiss, all teeth and tongue and the slight tang of cum and it takes her a moment to realize the bath has run cold.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he mumbles against her lips.

She has no intention of sleeping yet.

He pulls her to her feet in the water, lets her balance against him as she steps onto the bathmat, a small shiver passing through her at the temperature change. He’s there in an instant with a towel.

“Allow me.”

He dries her off head to toe, slow and careful, leaving kisses in the wake of the towel—gentle presses of lips down her arms, an eager suck at each pebbled nipple, a slow trail up the insides of her legs, so, so close to where she aches, a wetness that refuses to be wiped away.

He lays a final kiss just below her belly button. She trembles.

When he sweeps her up into a bridal carry, she can’t help the giggle that escapes her. This man, this _stranger,_ soft cock and eager smile and illustrious strength makes her more comfortable than she can ever remember.

She soaks it all in while it lasts.

He gives no hints of his plans, just carries her effortlessly to the bed while she buries herself in the warmth of his bare chest.

She could get used to this.

Warning bells ring.

He silences them with his lips on hers as he lays her gently on the sheets, soft against her skin.

“You’re stunning, you know.” A confession whispered in her ear before he sucks the lobe into his mouth. “Fucking breathtaking.”

She feels her blush extend to her chest. His words teeter on the line between fantasy and reality, just outside the game they’re playing.

So she tries to reel it back in.

“Thank you, de— _oh!”_

She gasps at the sudden change in location of his hands, one so gently between her neck and jaw, the other tracing nonsense patterns on her stomach, inching lower and lower as he laves her with attention from his mouth, kisses and bites and licks and sucks and she’s writhing beneath him, thoroughly overwhelmed and surely making a mess of the sheets beneath her cunt. He returns to her breast, teasing and pinching and brushing with the lightest strokes of his fingers before returning with his mouth, following the patterns his hands have made. He nips at the undersides, then moves back to her neck, then swallows her whimpers with kisses while caressing every part of her above the waist that he can find, all the while holding himself above her with one leg between hers, the other astride her body, nearly chivalrous in the way he refuses to let their lower halves touch.

And then, he breaks again.

“Can I go down on you?”

He asks as if it’s not the most tempting proposal she’s ever heard, but no man has ever offered this to her as if it would be his honor, words caressing her like a dream.

She gulps, instinct compelling her to give him an out.

“You don’t have to—”

“If I were in love,” he interrupts with a whisper, a secret into the already bitten and sensitive skin of her neck, “I believe I would lick my wife’s sweet little cunt every chance I got.”

His mouth is absolute sin, and now he wants to put it between her legs.

He moves the hand not cradling her chin down to where she drips for him, where she is wet for the fantasy of his affections. 

“Darling,” a kiss, “sweetheart,” a bite, “let me taste you.” She whines, overcome with need, thrusting her hips against him, sharp and sudden with the deepest want, a silent assent. 

He dips a single finger into her hole, easily, seemingly just because he can, before he moves down the bed, hitching her thighs onto his shoulders as he sucks the wet finger into his mouth before gifting her with a wide lick of his tongue, brazen as he seemingly endeavors to taste the entirety of her cunt with a single pass.

“You deserve this, my love.”

She’s absolutely _gone_ with need.

“Please, Ben.” Her voice sounds far away to her own ears. She only knows lust and want and the threat of combustion.

He doesn’t make her wait a moment more. 

He licks again, this time a careful trace of her folds on one side, then the other, slow and sure as he brings a thumb to her slit to feel her hole again.

“So wet for me, darling,” he says into the crease of her thigh. He licks his wet thumb as if there isn’t a veritable fountain waiting for him just millimeters away. “Did you make all of this for me?”

Her cheeks have never been redder. She throws an arm over her face, shielding herself from his inquiries.

He pulls it away.

“No need to be shy, love. I know you, remember?”

She shudders. Looks at him, mouth wet and eager, eyes imploring. She couldn’t refuse him even if she wanted to, so she answers.

“Yes,” she breathes. “For you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. What a lovely gift.” He licks her again from hole to clit, maintaining eye contact until he circles the nub with his tongue and she cants her head back into the pillows at the feeling.

But her arms remain at her sides. She keeps herself exposed to him, her darling, her love as he sucks the lips of her cunt between his, thrusts his tongue into her hole, drags it up to press against the side of her clit as he nudges into her with his finger yet again.

She knows he’s never actually tasted her before tonight—it’s impossible that he knows just how to work her up, how to drive her to the edge at lightning speed, and yet.

And _yet._

She’s on the precipice so soon.

He must be able to read the twitches of her legs, the way her breathing changes, panting little whines as he devotes more and more attention to her clit, curls the finger inside of her until she lets out a sharp gasp. He drapes his free arm over her hips, pinning her in place and finally focusing all of the attention of his tongue where she needs it most.

“Fuck, Ben, please, please, I—”

He adds another finger, gives one particularly wicked suck, and she comes.

No orgasm has felt like this before, a full body experience of completion as he laves her with the perfect pressure all the way through it, keeping her hips pinned so she can’t escape the source of pleasure. His fingers coax, his tongue teases, her chest is so tight, so so tight, and then it’s free, open, the sweetest release, fissions of pleasure still circulating as she comes down. Her breathing is all pants, sharp and too much and not enough all at once.

_It’s just a game_ she reminds herself.

But when he licks her clit in the aftershocks and says, “You’re so beautiful when you come, my love,” she wonders if this game isn’t a bit dangerous.

He thrusts his fingers almost lazily, seemingly content to watch her continue to twitch every few seconds when he curls them.

It feels like she’s barely gotten a break before he lowers his head again, licking at the spot where his fingers disappear inside her before dragging his tongue up to her clit, repeating the process all over again.

Curl, lick, drag, curl, lick, drag— _suck—_

She squeals, high and sharp, and her hands fly to his hair of their own volition, trying to drag him away, toward, closer, further—

“I can’t, not again, it’s too soon—”

“Of course you can, love. You’re mine,” he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world, the sweetest truth. “I know what you can take.” His tone is sure but the look in his eyes is pleading, offering her an out. She could take it.

But she won’t.

“Yes. Yes, you do,” and she hands him the reins of her body. “Silly me. Of course I can take more.”

He buries his smile in her cunt, along with three fingers this time.

Having been intimately acquainted with his cock, she’s thankful for the stretch.

She peers down for a moment to see that he’s begun to harden again, curling toward his taut abdomen as he gorges himself on the taste of her.

If the first time was good, this, _this_ is something else entirely. He must be the world’s fastest learner, employing every single move that made her gasp or twitch the first time and discarding the rest. The technique renders her an incoherent puddle, little noises she can’t contain and moans unlike any she’s ever made.

She’s so close, _so fucking close,_ and she nearly cries when he lifts his mouth away.

“Are you going to come again for me, darling?”

She nods furiously, words inaccessible as he returns to her clit, tonguing at the side that makes her heel twitch against his back where it rests, once, twice, _fuck,_ it’s _just fucking right_ and she comes again, this time with her hands in his hair, keeping him anchored to her cunt as she thrusts down wildly against his face. He takes it, every motion, every kick to his back, every press of her thighs as she sails over wave after wave of pleasure.

Eventually, she collapses, boneless, exhausted enough that she hardly notices him extracting himself from her grasp, walking toward the corner of the room to retrieve something from his bag.

She misses his warmth immediately, a pitiful whine from her throat.

He’s back at her side almost instantly.

“Shh, I’m right here, my perfect girl, so good for me, taking it so well,” he whispers between gentle kisses against her lips, tangy and sweet. “I’m going to fuck my little wife now, isn’t that right?”

“Please.”

It’s the only word she has left.

That is, until he settles himself on the bed between her legs, ass balanced on his heels as she finally spots what he got from his bag.

“D—do people in love use condoms?” she stutters out, even as the wrapper is halfway to his mouth, primed to be torn open. 

She watches him gulp, the movement passing through his throat, down to his chest as his breath catches. 

“Sometimes, I would assume,” he whispers.

Something comes over her at this moment; this is a fantasy, freeing and lovely and she wants to surrender herself to it. _Fully_ surrender herself to it.

Recklessness adds its own fire to her belly, and something in her stirs at the thought of continuing on her journey with the reminder of tonight dripping from between her legs.

“I have an IUD. And I haven’t been with anyone since I last got tested.” She says it in a rush, in a whisper, determined to stay suspended in the fantasy.

“I—me too. I mean, me either. Yes. The same.” It’s almost adorable, the way he stutters it out, cock bouncing against his abdomen, a trail of precum in its wake. 

She widens her legs. Inviting.

His breath hitches. “Are you sure?” This time, it is he who forgets the game.

So she reminds him.

“Fuck me, darling.”

He dives down the bed, meets her in a kiss so unlike all the rest. So _real._

“Of course, my love. Anything you want. Forever.”

He notches the head of his cock at her entrance and slowly, blissfully fills her.

He’s all warmth and stretch and complete, utter fulfillment as he presses forward, giving her ample time to adjust to the feeling of oneness.

“Fuck, sweetheart, such a perfect little cunt,” he pants out, another heated kiss before he pulls away, seeking her eyes.

He stares at her for a moment and they live in the sensation. When he brings a thumb to her cheek and cradles her head so tenderly, she feels her heart burst and nearly starts crying at the sudden connection.

“My love.” He says it like another secret. “So good.”

Eyes still locked, he thrusts, sudden and deep, and she almost forgets tenderness in the wake of intensity. When she whimpers, he presses their foreheads together, keeps his eyes open as he thrusts again.

And again.

And again.

His gaze is inescapable. Normally, she would shy away from such prolonged contact, turning or hiding her face in her hands or simply closing her eyes as the person between her legs found release. But somehow, his careful attention heightens each sensation, forces her to feel every drag of his cock against her walls, purposeful and honest and so fucking _real._

He watches her so intently, she feels her full body blush deepen. He looks as though he is committing her to memory.

She imagines she looks much the same.

He fucks her like it’s _for_ her. She has never in her life been fucked like this.

He’s all deep thrusts and perfect angles and he holds himself just right, the perfect amount of weight pushing her into the bed, comfort without cloying.

And despite all attempts to quell the overflow of emotion that threatens to consume her, a single tear tracks down her cheek, dampens the thumb resting there as he fucks her.

He pauses when he sees it, the opposite of what she wants.

“Rey, are you—”

“Don’t stop.” She threads her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulls him impossibly closer, circles her hips, coaxing. “Don’t stop, Ben.”

He resumes, and the hand in his hair slides to his cheek and they hold each other, face to face, soul to soul as he builds another climax within her thrust by thrust.

She trembles beneath him and he feels it, attentive as ever. She feels him too, swelling inside of her, and they’re both so close, an impossibility between strangers, but somehow—

“You’re going to come on my cock, sweetheart, aren’t you?”

She nods, and his head moves with hers because they’re still connected.

“That’s it, so good, so _fucking good for me, sweetheart—”_

He lets go of her face to reach for their point of connection, makes up for the distance by kissing her slow and deep, the antithesis of his building thrusts.

“Gonna fill you up,” he grunts, tracing messy, delicious circles around her clit, pressing into that favored side because he knows her body now, better than any lover before him. “Just like you asked. My sweet little wife wants to be dripping with my cum.”

“Yes,” she gasps, entirely overwhelmed, on the brink of decadent disaster. “Please, _fuck!”_

His fingers send her careening over the edge, cunt clenching in time with her hand in his hair. She’s downright delirious with it, legs wrapped around his waist, enticing him to join her.

And he does, moments after she begins to shudder with the intensity of it all, spilling inside her, warming the only part of her body that the fire couldn’t reach. He buries his face in her neck, neither of them coordinated enough to continue the trade of kisses through their mutual indulgence.

When he collapses against her, she never wants to move, wants to live in this moment of warmth and completion and connection.

But eventually, she has to breathe. He seems to recognize her predicament, and reluctantly pulls out of her cunt, a trail of shared arousal in his wake, painting her thighs before flopping next to her on the bed.

He reaches for her cheek again, stopping midair. As if he’s afraid that now, he’s not allowed to touch her like that. To pretend.

She pulls him the rest of the way, resting her hand atop his own.

“I’ll never tire of you, darling.” Her voice trembles as she says it, but she says it all the same. And she is gifted with another of his genuine smiles.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers, forcing herself to the bathroom despite every wish to burrow under the sheets with him immediately, to pass out in his arms as if the fantasy is real.

She is startled to remember the existence of every fixture of the room, to recall the events of the evening as if already a distant memory as she performs her post-sex routine. Had he truly bathed her, like a lover would? Had she taken him in her throat, swallowed him down with an eagerness reserved for only the rarest of occasions? They’ve seen so much in their short time together she can hardly stand it.

When she reaches the sink, she can see the evidence of their night, littering bite marks. She feels the pleasant promised ache in her jaw, between her legs. An impression, physically fleeting even now but one she tucks away in her mind, desperately clinging to each moment, making memories. 

He waits outside the door, takes her place as she crosses the room to return to the bed. She slides beneath the sheets, naked and sated and close to drifting off. She’s finally warm and his scent clings to the air and her eyelids are so heavy—

“Rey?”

She startles, opens her eyes to his looming form, a pair of boxer briefs shielding him from her inquiring gaze before she tilts her head back to see his face.

_Beautiful,_ she thinks.

“I’m going to the couch now.”

“No.” It’s out before she can think, and she turns back the corner of the sheets in invitation.

“Are you sure?”

“I thought husbands and wives in love share a bed?”

He chuckles at that, climbs into the bed next to her with a sigh, curls an arm around her to pull her into his chest.

It’s not as soft as a pillow, but it’s soothing all the same.

“Goodnight, my love.” A whisper in her dreams, and sleep.

————

An unfamiliar ring drags her from rest, followed by the hushed tones of a deep voice. And then—

“Rey?”

She opens her eyes.

“The train is fixed. We leave in half an hour.”

He looks a bit sad in the morning light. She hates it.

The embers of a fantasy peter out before her eyes.

“Okay,” she whispers. 

He lets her shower first, a brief thing and a quick brush of teeth before she cedes control of the bathroom to him.

She collects her clothes as he bathes, dresses and packs her bag and tries not to lament the end.

He gave her something so precious, something she will treasure for eternity. She can only hope he feels the same.

When he enters the sitting room, fully dressed in a fresh suit, her heart stutters. 

He’s as devastating as he was at the start. 

“Ready to go?”

_No, not at all._

“Yes.”

She slips on her thin coat and scarf and gloves and she picks up her own bag this time.

He still gets the door for her.

The silence in the elevator is so different from what they shared just hours ago, anticipation replaced with mourning.

His smile turns tentative again. 

They follow the droves back to the train in lockstep, still not speaking, tension thick and precious between them.

They are the last ones to arrive, entrance looming, the end so near.

And then he stops her. Cradles her jaw. Seeks permission. 

She gives it. 

This kiss is the most tender of all, so sweet she could cry, so distracting that she almost doesn’t notice his hand reaching into the pocket of her coat, the crinkle of paper barely audible above the whistle of the train.

He doesn’t say another word as they part, just enters the train and turns right, following the path to first class.

She’s in a daze until the conductor clears his throat. She whispers an apology, scurries to the back of the train, back to her seat, back in time as if nothing had changed.

Except everything has.

The train starts moving.

She reaches for her pocket, no idea what she expects to find. The folded slip bears the logo of the inn, ripped from the tiny pad next to the phone.

Her hands are trembling as she unfolds it, and it’s not from the cold.

_Hope to see you at home, my love._

Below, an address and phone number.

Somehow, ironically, amazingly, blessedly, she recognizes it. 

He lives in the posh part of town, yes. The posh part of _her_ town. The part of town approximately a twenty minute train ride away. 

Before she loses her nerve, she texts him.

Rey: Don't forget, darling. I’m making New Year’s Eve dinner.

She pockets her phone and waits. The train picks up steam. She’s sure she made a mistake, of course it was a one time thing, he couldn’t possibly—

She feels the vibration against her thigh. 

Ben: Of course, my love. And I’ll have you for dessert.

She grins. 

And she pictures her legs spread on a marble countertop, fingers twined in the hair of her husband as he feasts on her after a long day.

And she wonders where exactly the line is between something fake and something real.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated and thoughts welcome here and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/beccastanz) <3


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